By Rina
Erik could not understand why he wasn't dead by now. He did not care one way or the other whether his mortality was being used to his advantage at the moment. He just thought that reasonably, even if the sparse food he'd salvaged from his cupboards- after the mob had, adopting the Last Supper metaphor of Christianity even in their heathenish fury by ravaging his bread and wine as if it were his flesh and blood- had not killed him by its lack of variety, should have done the job with the abundance of variety that the fungi growing on it had. He did not know whether he should rightfully be eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner even if he had the supplies to do so, because he never knew what time of day it was. The concept of time had become a novel experience for him. He well knew the excruciating crawl of time, but he had not known he could feel this even as the same time made his mind reel with its celerity. It was as though he couldn't decide which way the sand in an hour glass was going.
He sighed. Waiting for his death to start was as mundane as waiting for his life to start.
~
Raoul felt this way too. But he knew why: he regretted every moment the monster might still be biding his time, making it seem to him as though every slow moment were enough for one such as ~he~ to be committing a thousand crimes. And the time in which he, Raoul, could be preventing them seemed to slip away as swiftly. The time when he could be ensuring Christine de Chagny's (and his) absolute peace of mind, for if he was killed none of these crimes would be directed against her.
He did not doubt that it was only a matter of time, nor did he doubt putting the poor beast out of his misery would be a matter of charity. Had he not proclaimed himself ready to die? He had been ready to die ~for~ Christine, surely now he was even more so ~without~ her. His spectacular sacrifice had been on impulse of what better part there was of him. Now that he was suffering the aftermath of that moment's passion and indecision, Raoul knew that either his insanity or his inimical nature would incite him to take action to undo what he'd done so spontaneously. However, he knew that act was Christine's only decent memory of their "relationship," and who was he to taint something already so blackened by telling her that very memory was his motive for ending the beast's life? She was still recuperating from her volley of close encounters with the Phantom, poor love.
It was only a matter of time…